Habitual
by Sh1 n0 m1k0
Summary: Some habits are harder to break than others.


**Force of Habit**

Once a month.

Like clockwork.

Once a month, he'd show up in her kitchen, in full kingly regalia, and she'd make tea.

He'd watch her put the kettle on and stretch up on tiptoe to reach the two chipped teacups she stashed away for such an occasion. The steam would sing, demanding her attention, and she'd use the same stained dishcloth to lift the kettle and pour.

Once a month.

He'd notice the dripping sink and the way the sickly-green refrigerator would hum noisily. He'd politely ignore the pile of dishes on the counter tops and the spread of highlighted newspapers that filled half of the tiny table.

She'd brush the classifieds aside with a thin smile, dumping them on a chair and sliding his cup across the sticky tabletop. He would accept graciously with a nod as she busied herself with finding something, _anything_, to serve with the tea. Sometimes there were cookies, or thin biscuits - sent from her mother from overseas, or slices of toast spread thinly with butter and jam.

Sometimes there were crackers and cheap cheese spread. Almost stale muffins. Hot dog buns and peanut butter.

Rarely was there an occasion that she could not find something to offer, arranged neatly on a plate.

When there was, he quietly produced a box of sweets, a tray of tiny cakes, or a bowl of exotic fruit.

She would protest firmly, denouncing her need for his charity, but the gift always remained on the table during their conversation, and her treacherous fingers always found the way to bring the delicacies to her mouth, eyes betraying the little joy that she took from such things.

Often these gifts would save her pride even after he was gone, in instances when a beautifully carved box or a silver tray or a heavy crystal bowl fetched just enough in the hands of a pawn broker to cover the month's rent and a few groceries for the next week.

Regardless of the state of her pantry, she always had tea. Earl Grey, to be exact. Neatly wrapped in their separate packages. She could go without milk or eggs or bread for a week or two, but to be caught without tea whenever _he_ would show was something her pride would not allow.

Once a month.

Like clockwork.

And today was no different.

Cupboard doors would slam lightly as she rummaged through them, and she would lightly call a question from her position in the refrigerator, asking if he would like honey, or sugar, or even milk?

He would decline politely, preferring to drink without any such additives, and she would shrug and grab what was left of her crystallizing honey bear, bringing it with her to the table.

The chair would scrape lightly across the linoleum, and finally creak with her weight. She'd struggle with pulling the top off of the bear, and he would reach across and gracefully relieve it of its cap. She'd thank him quietly and proceed to coax what little sweetness it still held into her cup.

He'd inquire after her health, she'd inquire after his.

Then quietly they would sit amongst the wreckage of her life, sipping tea from secondhand cups as if it were not out of the ordinary at all.

As if she had never held his kingdom and his heart in the palm of her hand and turned away.

She would giggle as he passed along messages from her friends – and friends she had yet to meet. He would complain about politicking and the latest decrees of the Court – she would listen and give sympathetic advice where she felt she could.

He would smile and nod as she told him tales of her brother – what a rascal he was becoming! - and would frown when she talked about her stepmother's ways of dealing with the imaginative youth. She would gesture widely as she described a book's plot or a silly joke that she thought he would find amusement in.

What they did _not_ talk about, however, was the way the electricity bill was barely met, or how her last job interview was a spectacular failure. They didn't discuss the imminent loneliness that haunted the walls of her tiny apartment, or the corridors of his grand castle.

And they most certainly did not address the offer that she had rejected in lieu of her brother's welfare.

But today was going to be different. He was going to make sure of it.

He conjures a crystal as she sips tea quietly, and deftly holds it out to her, over the slices of apple and past his chipped teacup.

The movement startles her enough that she spills across her jeans and shirt. The "gift" is momentarily forgotten as he apologizes and offers to undo the damage. She declines, laughing it off.

"It'll wash out," She says, but he knows it will stain. The last of her quarters went to the laundromat last week. She excuses herself from the table with a thin smile, "Serves me right for being clumsy."

He tries to protest the statement, but she is already tucked away behind the door that he knows leads to her small bathroom. This was her home, he reminds himself, and he would do well to play by her rules.

When she returns, it is wearing a fresh pair of jeans and the shirt bears large water spots where she rinsed out the spill. The crystal is waiting for her on a paper napkin. She pauses at the sight, then shakes her head.

"I can't."

He starts to protest again, calling her name ever so softly, but her head droops.

"I'm sorry."

She won't meet his gaze as he rises from the table and gathers himself, "If that is what you wish." The unspoken finish hangs in the air between them.

_'But you know it isn't.'_

She follows him to the door, and it opens – not to a dingy, poorly lit corridor – but instead to a scene on a hill overlooking a great maze. Not a threadbare carpet, but red dust and glitter. He turns to her once more.

Only, instead of the polite goodbye and promise of meeting again, as per usual; he brushes hair from her cheek and settles a light kiss on her forehead.

"I can wait," he whispers.

She starts to reply, but he backs away and gives her a slight bow. Turning to face his realm, he tugs his gloves on just a bit tighter and strides purposefully into the eerie wilderness with his head held high. For a moment, she considers following him.

But it is just a moment.

The door slowly creaks closed and she know that if she were to open it again, it would be to the hallway of a dirty apartment in an even dirtier side of town. That he truly was gone. Again.

That she had turned him down.

Again.

Ah, well. There was always next month.

oooOOOooo

Disclaimer: No ownies.

5h1 n0 m1k0


End file.
